


transitions

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, reposted from tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 13,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: Assorted short works of fiction imported from tumblr.





	1. celebrimbor/galadriel/annatar

“I suppose,” Galadriel said, with a brief, fierce glance, “that _you_ would certainly think so.”

She was perched by the hearth, feet curled beneath her skirts, an arm around her knees: when she looked up, the firelight caught in her eyes, and blazed there.

“It’s a natural reaction,” Annatar said, amused. He was lounging half across the couch and half over Celebrimbor, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Celebrimbor tried, and failed, not to find this endearing. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with being envious, as long as you don’t let it guide your actions overmuch – “

Galadriel’s lip was curling. Celebrimbor tugged at Annatar’s hair, to catch his attention, and gave the other what he hoped was a suitably reproving look. He felt warm and pleased with everything: the wine-glass still in his hand, the evening, Annatar resting solidly against him, familiar and comfortable as the hearth-fire itself. It was difficult to remember he ought to have objections at all.

Annatar responded with an innocence so intense that Celebrimbor felt obliged to pull the other’s hair again nonetheless, suppressing the urge to smile.

“Tyelpe, I’m only trying to be helpful – “

“You absolutely are not,” Celebrimbor said, half-laughing, and Galadriel put her glass down with a clink on the stone, standing up.

“ _You_ have been imagining your own flaws in others ever since you arrived here,” she said, in disgust, and Annatar’s head snapped round. Celebrimbor felt him tense. “I’m not the one who’s jealous. You can’t stand for anyone else to have anything, can you – unless you think you own _them_ , too – “

“I can’t imagine why you think you might have _anything_ I could possibly want,” Annatar said, low and angry; and Celebrimbor started to sit up, realising he ought to be alarmed.

“Can’t you?” Galadriel said, with a smile that was a flash of teeth as accomplished and dangerous as any threat Annatar had ever made himself; and, at a loss for other interventions, Celebrimbor resorted to pulling Annatar over and kissing him.

It was not at first an entire success. He could feel Annatar bare his teeth, fingers digging into Celebrimbor’s arm; then he kissed Celebrimbor back, pressing his mouth open, reaching up to tug his head back and press him against the cushions.

Galadriel made a small sound of irritation, and started to turn away. Then stopped, raising an eyebrow, as Annatar broke off to smile at her, sharply, with an air of restored superiority.

“If I’d known that was what it took to shut you up I might have tried it myself,” she said, before Annatar could speak, cutting him off.

“As if _you’d_ try it,” Annatar said, amused, and then paused, forced to stare back at Galadriel uncomfortably.

“Cousin,” Celebrimbor tried, attempting the other angle of reconciliation, and Galadriel smiled, looking not at all less fierce.

“I think,” she said, stepping over to look down at Annatar, “that _you_ are making a tactical mistake.”

She leant down, telegraphing her movements, and cupped Annatar’s chin in her hand, tipping his face upwards. He looked at her narrow-eyed; and she bent and kissed him, her shining hair falling down around them both.

Celebrimbor was –

He had the feeling, strongly, that he ought to tell them both to stop, or at least look away. Somehow he found himself not doing either. Neither looked altogether comfortable, a bow-string tension to each movement; what Celebrimbor could manage was to stroke the stiff line of Annatar’s back, watching, breathless.

It was apparent that neither was going to be the first to break away. Celebrimbor licked his mouth, not sure what he wanted, or from which of them; but suddenly aware that he wanted it very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/172516559542/re-prompts-celebrimborgaladrielannatar.


	2. thingol being suspicious of annatar

Valinor was not as he remembered it: he had seen it only once, before, an overwhelming blaze in the youth of the world, before he had found Melian, and wanted nothing else thereafter. In the fainter light of sun and stars, its mountains worn by age, he found it restful. Not as Doriath-that-was, for that was gone with so much else of the world, his home lost under foundering seas – but comfort enough, as these things were.

Its shores felt less tranquil, today. Thingol frowned, looking out across the beach, trying to place that which troubled him. There could be no danger, not in the Blessed Realm –

“Love?” he said, aloud, feeling her attention, as he cast his mind outwards.

There was a rustle of silks, as Melian dropped into the chair beside him, abruptly present – alone with him, she was less inclined to trouble herself with the courtesies the Ainur gave to the incarnate. There was no need, between each other.

She was frowning, as she settled into her body, letting him pour for her from the tea-set laid out on the table.

“I do _not_ like this,” she said, taking her cup and narrowing her eyes at it, as if it had given her insult. “But who would heed _my_ counsel?”

Thingol winced, and reached out to take her hand, attempting comfort.

“Dear one,“ he started, trying to feel out the question. “Is there any matter in which I might – “

The messenger’s knock at the door made him glance up, startled, to meet the young woman’s apologetic look as she hovered in the doorframe. Melian sighed, and relented a little, pressing his hand with hers.

“Sir,” the messenger started, looking uncomfortable. “It being the hour of the morning for audiences – “

Ah.

“A traveller?” Thingol asked, to her nod. “Send them through.”

It was custom, as these things went, for the Kinslayers to beg permission of the Teleri before passing through their lands, unless invited. Thingol thought this entirely fitting, and had on occasion taken pleasure in denying consent to those who seemed to him to seek it for little purpose.

He hoped this one might be dealt with quickly, at least. He would not seek to put aside any duty to his people, but there were few things he wished less to trouble his morning with.

The messenger seemed to feel his mood, for she returned swiftly, other footsteps following behind her. The first to follow her was – he recognised the grey-eyed, dark-haired elf who attended her, dipping his head in polite respect.

“Lord Thingol,” Celebrimbor Curufinwion said, calmly, and Thingol frowned again. He supposed the man the least intolerable of his family, but that said very little. “May I introduce my- “

“Annatar,” the stranger interrupted, with a smile, and Thingol’s frown deepened.

Melian was bristling, beside him, straight-backed and – she was rarely angry. He thought she might be close. The young Fëanorian and his companion were looking at each other in private communication, though judging by Celebrimbor’s expression he was little pleased.

It was no name Thingol recognised, among the Ainur. Though there were many of his wife’s kind, of course, greater or lesser, and not all chose to make themselves familiar to the Eldar. But there _was_ something –

“Do I know you?” he asked, out loud. The Ainur might for the most part put on and off their forms at will; but their nature did not change. And Thingol was not readily mistaken in such matters.

“Oh, we never met,” the stranger assured him, cheerfully. “Melian! I’ve been meaning to mention for a long time – my compliments on your Girdle. It was an excellent effort, under the circumstances.”

In Melian’s hand, the cup cracked.

“Get out,” Thingol said, ungraciously.

“Lord Thingol,” Celebrimbor started, looking rueful. “I do apologise, but we thought it best – “

“Another time,” Thingol said flatly. “Next month. I don’t care. Get _out_.”

A look of irritation crossed Annatar’s prettily-sculpted features. Celebrimbor glanced at him, and at Thingol, and grabbed Annatar by the sleeve, displaying the closest Thingol had seen to good sense from any of his family so far.

“Beloved,” Thingol started, standing and crossing to his wife. “Can I help?”

Melian was glaring into the middle distance, porcelain slowly crumbling between her fingers. The tea had spilled across the table; the tea-leaves were slowly sprouting into flowers, their roots digging into the wood.

“You’d think they’d have learned their lesson about repentance the _first_ time,” she said, sounding not at all mollified. “I really _cannot_ see this going any better.”

“That was – wait, _what_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/172206091402/thingol-being-suspicious-of-annatar-gimlilegolas


	3. silvergifting, alien invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set in the same universe as [metachrosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916344)

The fluorescent lighting flickered overhead, the windows turned to mirrors in the night. Tyelpe rubbed at his eyes, and turned back to the keyboard, trying to drop into the focus that let him block out everything except the code he was trying to write, fast and barely tested. Around him, the lab hummed, a taste of lightning in the air.

The interface looked like nothing much – shards of metal, polished and shaped, the quantum circuitry within invisible to the naked eye. You could wear one as jewellery, probably.

It was power enough to split the world apart. And then put it together again, afterwards.

If it _worked_.

Footsteps.

Security, he thought, trying to believe it, but they were used to him working late. No. He reached for the drawer of his desk, hesitated.

“Coffee?” Annatar asked, pushing the heavy door open with ease, smiling, looking only a little dishevelled. “I saw the lights on, and thought you might want some caffeine.”

It was –

Tyelpe swallowed nausea. That was _Annatar_ , charming, leaning a hip against the lab bench and raising an eyebrow, amber eyes heavy-lidded with sleep –

He couldn’t do it, he thought, and pulled the prototype from his drawer, raising it in his hand between them, pressure-formed diamond glittering even under the tube lights.

“Tyelpe?” Annatar said, puzzled, all innocence.

“It’s not finished,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “But the power’s connected up. It’s just – unfocused. So if I use it – I think you can guess what it would do. Even to you.”

He could see Annatar go still. The moment the other realised, the flicker of potential responses – they knew each other so _well_ , he thought, bitterly. Or so he _had_ thought.

“Please, Tyelpe,” Annatar settled on, voice gone soothing. He stepped back, raising his hands. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but – “

“Oh, _don’t_ you,” Tyelpe said, unable to keep his voice from cracking on the words. “You – “

There was a brief, confusing sequence.

Annatar moved, very fast, much faster than Tyelpe had thought he was – he didn’t have time to think through a response, only react, scared, as he would think later, the hindbrain acting before higher functions could process and consider –

The interface in his hand heated. There was a flare of light, and Annatar was stumbling down to his knees, with a rattling gasp, bringing his hands up to the hole in his chest, fluid dripping from it. Tyelpe could see the floor tiles through it.

He thought he made a sound. Annatar looked up at him, his lips starting to shape a word.

“Don’t,” he said, going to his knees beside the other, touching him, helplessly. “Don’t, I – “

Annatar coughed, and looked up at him, a little surprised.

“It’s alright, Tyelpe,” he said, after a moment, voice – strange; the harmonics wrong. That was probably what happened when you _didn’t have working lungs_ , Tyelpe thought, a laugh shocked out of him that turned into dry-retching.

Annatar patted him on the shoulder. When Tyelpe looked up, he was smiling, the hole in his chest already starting to close; and his grip tightened, even as Tyelpe tried, too late, to back away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/172177308817/silvergifting-alien-invasion-or-if-thats-too


	4. turgon finds out about fingon's death

Smoke rose across the field of battle, choking; the noise of the fight seemed to come from all around them, as they fell back towards the wet mud of the fens, forced back step by step, a slow terrible retreat.

For every orc that they cut down another seemed to take its place, marching over the bodies of their fallen comrades like so much carrion. Turgon might have been angry, or nauseous, or grieved, if there were anything other than the battle before him, the exhausting repetition of sword-strike and defence.

Glancing over, he wheeled and ducked to come up under the guard of the troll that was all too near, as it roared at the Hadorians, who were hard-pressed to defend themselves with the axes they bore – slashing at its tendons, before he could step back, the next line of their defence coming up behind him, relieving them for a moment.

He had not thought it would be so, practicing drills in the valley beneath the walls of Gondolin, banners flying above as their arms gleamed beneath the sunlight. But then – he could not say what he had thought. Only that he might have known better.

Húrin was beside him, reaching up to try and sling an arm about his shoulder, settling for a roughly affectionate clout. Turgon rocked, a little, and took the flask Húrin offered without thinking, sipping at the neck.

He choked. It – wasn’t water, burned going down. Straightened, coughing, while Húrin grinned at him and Maeglin glared, disapproving.

Turgon found himself laughing.

“Does you good,” Húrin said, cheerfully, leaning on his axe-hilt. Blood splattered his forearms and surcoat; Turgon assumed it was not his own. “Want some, Lord of the Mole? We’re all comrades here.”

He was very much older than Turgon had known him, as was the way of Men. As a youth, Maeglin’s look would have made him bristle with insulted pride; now he grinned at it again, solid and undaunted.

“Fine,” Maeglin said, after a pause, and snatched the flask from Turgon’s grip. He raised it to his lips, and swallowed, maintaining suspicious eye contact with Húrin all the while, to Húrin’s amusement.

Something seemed to lighten in Turgon’s chest. He reached over to tuck a stray braid beneath Maeglin’s helm, smiling at his nephew’s restrained impatience.

Then looked around them, assessing the field.

“Do you – there!” he said, looking out to the north-east, trying to make out details past the smoke. But the blue and silver were no livery of Morgoth’s. “My brother’s forces – “

The soldiers around him were raising their heads, throwing back the orcs to make a path for their allies; Turgon reached for the horn at his belt, thinking through the commands he might be needed to give.

“Where is Fingon?” he asked, as his brother’s captain limped into the circle of their spears, smearing blood across her face as she rubbed the sweat from her eyes, panting. “We have enough here to aid him – “

_Utúlie’n aurë_ , he thought, taking heart from it, reminding himself of his brother’s glad cry as they raised their spears. _The day must come_.

But she looked at him, and dropped to her knees; and suddenly he knew what answer she would give, all laughter fading, even before she spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/172171008372/i-would-love-to-read-your-take-on-the-scene-where


	5. "you said it would be painless. it wasn't that at all"

Hard dawn light across the sea, rolling in, washing out the shadowed prints of his feet in the sand. The coastline had crumbled in, reformed, a mess of kelp and tree-stumps – this had been flood-plain, a century ago.

There were still storms. But the wet smell around him was the clean sea, no longer choked with ash.

Maglor thought he might make a song of it.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” the other said, her voice clear and harsh as the gulls, “to find that _you_ survived.”

He turned. She stood in the waves, water washing about her feet, tangling her skirts; the light caught her, or was caught, falling over and past her to glitter on the sea-foam.

“Lady Elwing,” he said, courteously, and made his best bow, sweeping low, the ratty tangles of his hair over his face.

Nothing softened in her expression. When he looked up, she was still watching him, unchanged.

“Maglor Fëanorion,” she said, testing the syllables. “Is this what it comes to, then? And what of the jewel, that you gave so much for? That neither law nor love would have any other withhold?”

He forced a smile, and spread his hands.

“None withholds it,” he said, grateful to say the words without stumbling; making himself smile, still, showing his teeth. “I cast it away myself. And as you see, Elwing Dioriel, I suffer for it. Still.”

Her gaze fell upon his palm, the burned stretch of his fingers, and settled there.

“Do you?” she said, thoughtful. “I wonder.”

She paced him in the waves as he walked, keeping a careful distance between them. She would not pass onto the shore, he thought, remembering the rumours that had reached them, of the doom that had sundered her from mortal lands. And from her sons.

It would, he thought, sound well in verse. The fall into darkness; her transfiguration; her husband’s high and lonely fate. There were already songs that told of it. His would surpass them.

He was humming, inattentive, working it through in his mind, when she stopped. The tide was coming in; when he looked down, the water was spilling in around him, so that the tread of his boots was in the sea, and not the shore.

Then she was there, swift as if winged, her cool hand settling at his chest. Her fingers burned, he might have said; but his heart stumbled within him, and he could not have said if it were her touch, or if it was only memory that seared him, unbearably bright.

“I thought of revenge,” Elwing said, calmly. “But an ending would be a kindness, I think. And I have not enough of that left in me, to spare you pain.”

She released him. He half-fell back, pushing himself out of the water, letting out an involuntary cry as he tried to brace with his hand against the sand and silt.

When he looked up she was gone, only a shadow of wings falling across the sky. He sat for a while, until the waves began to come in hard around him, then struggled up, shivering, his hand clutched to his chest.

After a while, he began singing, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/172167371802/you-said-it-would-be-painless-it-wasnt-that-at


	6. maedhros, at sirion

In Angband, Maedhros had learned a great deal about testing the limits of one’s bonds. Physical, or otherwise – manacles that could be slipped, if one did not mind dislocating a joint or two; commands that could be either defied, or followed with dumb literalism, wilfully taken to the wrong ends.

He had been punished, but also, sometimes, rewarded. If he amused. If he could sneak disobedience through, in the crack between word and meaning, between his chains and the mountain wall.

“Please,” he said, begging, as he had not, upon Thangorodrim, not until Fingon came. “Please, I don’t want to _do_ this – “

The Havens of Sirion had no cliffs, were wet mud and tangled reeds. Blood puddled, thin tendrils infiltrating through the silt, wavering on the surface of the river.

A woman of his own people spat at him, as she died, before the light still gleaming in her eyes went out. It wrenched at him, reminding him.

_This swear we all –_

It was an oath to wriggle through, to break and crack and evade. _Fëanáro’s kin_ , he thought, and was she not their kin, through her husband, of Turgon’s line – _death will we deal him_ , but she was no _him_ , she was neither Maia nor Elda nor Aftercomer –

“Elwing!” he called, fighting through the rough dwellings rising from the marshes, at the edge of the sea. There were guards, soldiers, but the fearful remnants of the hidden kingdoms, of Doriath and Gondolin, were little match for the Fëanorian veterans. Some had been only children when they fled.

“Elwing, listen to me! We don’t _want_ to do this!”

There were still children, even now, their screams high and thin amid the clash of battle and the smoke coming up from the reeds.

“ _Please_ ,” he called, following the light, cutting through a guard’s chest with a single sword-blow, the blade grating on a rib as he tugged it back, to catch and parry with the backswing, another trying to come up at his side. He surged forward, momentum carrying him to crush the man’s face with the edge of his shield, in a crunch of blood and splintering bone.

The Oath caught at his limbs, when he would have stood, and let the blows land, and led him on: thinking, _all this could stop, if she just gave us the Silmaril, I wouldn’t have to –_

One thing Maedhros had never learned was surrender. He went on, and watched the light fading into the sea; then turned back, to his brothers, and the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/166988920542/in-angband-maedhros-had-learned-a-great-deal


	7. eonwe has a lot of feelings for mairon

Ash fills the clean air; you taste lightning at the back of your mouth, and strike again, feeling the pressure of the blow shudder through your bones.

Steel-armoured, Mairon smiles at you, sharp-toothed and flame-eyed, circling like a wolf. You pause, looking at him in – pity? Disgust?

“Fine,” you say, ungraciously. “What do you _want_ , foul one?” You stress the name, noting the curl of a lip in reaction. “Your master has fallen; your strongholds are cast down – “

“I _had_ ,” Mairon says, sardonically, “noticed.”

In the distance, the earth shakes. You hold your ground, and stare at him coldly, arching a brow.

He tilts his head, smiles again, and – drops the weapon he holds.

“I surrender,” he says, almost lightly.

You look at him.

“ _Do_ you.”

The glint of anger at the back of his eyes is hardly noticeable, but you can see the clench of his empty hand, claws pressing into the palm of his gauntlet.

“I’m not a fool, Eonwë,” he says, still smiling. A wolf’s-grin, that shows his teeth, once more. “I can see when I’ve been outmatched. If you want my submission – you have it. I will make all the proofs of repentance that you like.”

You hesitate. You want to ask for –

The truth is that you are in no position to demand apologies, sorrow, to make him show the grief and horror you might wish. You have seen Angband’s thralls. You have seen the scars on Beleriand itself, as it breaks around you, the earth gutted and defiled.

“Then come with me,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I can’t give you either judgement or pardon. But if you mean it – “

It isn’t _you_ he needs forgiveness from. You were barely touched by his deeds.

He makes a face: persuading, now, having seen that you aren’t rejecting his words outright. The form he wears for battle is shifting, a little, armour melting away, mouth softening; appearance calculated for beauty rather than terror.

“Isn’t surrender enough?” he says. “I haven’t discovered an inclination to cast myself upon the mercy of the Valar – not when they turned away from Middle-earth, unlike you and I – “

You hadn’t thought you still had it in you to hurt for him, but you do, looking at him now. You remember Mairon for pride and skill, fair of form and craft and speech, and it grieved you to lose him to Melkor, like so many others. You had known, and still not expected to _see_ him fallen so low.

But the truth is, you are tired.

Your skirmish has only been testing, so far. You know Mairon, know his power and calculation, and have no desire to carve more scars into the flesh of the world, or discover what else he can make you lose as the cost of victory. There has already been so much lost to come this far.

Melkor sits in chains at your camp. There are guards, but what guard could hold him?

“Go,” you say, at last. “Repent, then. Maybe you won’t even make me regret it.”

He starts to thank you, bright-eyed and plausible, and you turn and walk away. You are starting to regret it already, but what else can you do?

_The war is over_ , you think, and wish it sounded less hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/163902925427/prompt-eonwe-has-a-lot-of-feelings-for-mairon-and


	8. celebrimbor and fibercrafts

The stitching was astonishingly fine, the tapestry’s weave giving way to finely embroidered detail. Celebrimbor could not quite make out the craft of it; the intricacy of the threads was familiar enough, but when he glanced away, the picture seemed to shift, as if the light was changing, events now seen from one angle, now another.

It was his own hand that was raised to inlay the _ithildin_ , the moon glancing down, Narvi gesturing beside him, the holly-saplings by the water with a dark gleam to their leaves. He thought, for a moment, the scent of leaves and stone and clear night air was around him; then the memory left him, and it was only a picture, still upon the wall.

Death was like that. After a moment, he could smile, reaching up to let his fingers hover over Narvi’s woven shoulder, where a heavy-ornamented braid lay crookedly.

“It was a pleasure to weave,” a woman said beside him, her tone fond, and Celebrimbor glanced round. Or directed his attention to her. The body remembered its expressions; he found it difficult to think of himself otherwise.

The woman was at once more solid than him, and less so; she wore her form, but there was something of the veil about it, as the lesser gods, who might carelessly put bodies on and off. He thought her of their kindred, for a moment. Then recognised her.

“How does it work?” he asked, helplessly curious. “Great-grandmother – “

Míriel Þerindë smiled, and set her own fingers to the threads, which rippled at her touch; as if she had dipped them into the pool of the night sky shown there. The moon gleamed as he watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/163827476212/if-you-still-want-prompts-something-with


	9. silvergifting + celebration

The wind caught at petals from the flowers woven into Celebrimbor’s hair; he put a hand up, a little self-consciously, and Annatar smiled at him.

“So, the purpose of your summer festival – “ Annatar started.

“What, aren’t you enjoying it?” Celebrimbor said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought I’d cut to the main point, for once.” He grinned. “So, no, Annatar, I can’t explain why we celebrate this time of year in particular, but if you’re able to propose a more rational scheme –“

Annatar made a face, and linked his arm with Celebrimbor’s.

“I see,” he said, plaintively. “So this is the return for my efforts to understand the customs of the Eldar, and achieve a better appreciation of your people. Well, I suppose I shall forge on in the face of ingratitude – “

He stopped. Celebrimbor was laughing.

“Yes,” Celebrimbor managed at length, “your spirit of enquiry is admirable. Come on, let’s go investigate the honey-cakes, and then I thought you might like to carry out a sociological assessment of the after-dinner performance.”

“I suppose I could bear it if necessary,” Annatar said, with an air of being greatly put-upon, and Celebrimbor grinned again. “What’s the performance, do you know?“

“Oh, I think they’re starting with Leithian – just the flashy bits, you know, up to the fall of the Isle of Werewolves, but I’m told they’re doing some good work with the effects, for the wolves.”

He glanced over at Annatar, who had gone quiet, for a moment; and then smiled at him, a little oddly, reaching up to adjust a blossom plaited at Celebrimbor’s temple.

“Well, that sounds possible to endure,” he said, “though I hope you know it’s only for your sake. The honey-cake sounds perfectly acceptable, though I might need to try more than one, to ensure I can give a proper evaluation.”

“Such dedication,” Celebrimbor said, cheerfully, and drew him off towards the tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/163789846457/silvergifting-celebration-silvergifting


	10. lalwen and finarfin

The ground was frosted; Lalwen’s boots crunched as she walked, her breath a mist in the air. Blue lamplight caught on the faces around her, in the glimmer of their eyes. She put her head up and strode on.

Findaráto caught her glance as she passed, calling orders by the supply-wains, and gave her a smile that was like a wound. It rocked her, but whatever he saw in her face made him spin away, pushing his hair back with both hands, and begin talking fast to an unhappy-looking companion.

“Arafinwë!” she called, as she came into the pool of a lantern, her brother directing the division of their baggage beneath it. He looked up at her with almost a guilty start, shadows grey around his eyelids.

He had been growing thinner, these past – months? Hard to tell time, by only the wheel of the stars, if you did not keep the measure of it.

“Arafinwë,” she said, again, and went to embrace him, feeling his shoulders tense under her arms, pressing a rough kiss to his cheek. “They tell me that you – you – “

More tension. He held her away from him, stepping back, steeling himself. She looked at him, feeling an uncomfortable pity, the twist of love tight in her chest.

“I’m going back,” he said, and bit his lip.

She shifted on her feet. Tugged at her gloves.

“ _Why_ ,” she said, staring at him, and he gave her a strange, blank look. “Arafinwë, after _that_? How can you – “

The Doomsman’s words still tolled in her bones; she shivered.

“Lalwen,” he said, putting out a hand, almost blindly, and catching hers, so she felt his grip through the layers of their gloves. “Of course I’m going back. You should – we _all_ – “

“After that?” she said again, starting to be angry. “After threats and – and – is _that_ what it takes, for you, after everything – “

A wince; then his head came up.

“It’s not too late,” he said, earnest. She was familiar enough with the tone. “Listen, Lalwendë, we need to do this together, we did all along. If we go back and – and ask – “

“Ask your wife’s kin for pardon?” Lalwen said, deliberate. “After they started the battle on the docks, and tried to call the sea’s wrath on us, after – oh, listen, little brother, those were no natural storms – “

“I don’t know who _started it_ ,” Arafinwë said, almost petulant. “After we tried to kill them. Yes. Let’s _shake hands and try to get along_ , if they’ll let us.” She recognised the phrase from when their eldest brother had said it with scorn; Arafinwë spoke now with bitter resignation.

Lalwen had, herself, pushed a spear through the chest of a Telerin sailor, who had nocked an arrow to aim with pale, terrified face but steady hands. The grind of his ribs against the blade and shaft had been familiar from a dozen courtly hunts; she had hardly needed to think about the motion.

“It’s too late,” she said, instead of thinking about it now. “Nothing’s right, Arafinwë, it hasn’t been since before Father died, but at least we can _try_ to make Moringotto pay. What else should we do, now we’ve come this far? Who do you think this is going to help?”

Her brother’s face was falling into familiar lines, the stubborn determination that made him – tall and golden and with his mother’s features – look, for a moment, not like Finwë but Fëanáro.

“No one, probably,” he said, thinly. “It never does.” She tried to catch his sleeve, but he was already turning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/163647321327/for-your-prompts-maybe-lalwen-and-finarfin-when


	11. tar-miriel in valinor

Clouds had threatened, but the day was bright, cold sea air rippling through the new grass. The tumbled earth had quickly become overgrown, wildflowers nodding amid the rocks, the first saplings starting up here and there.

In a century you would hardly know the hills had not always been there, which was really very little time, for Valinor. It was a novelty to herself be part of the cataclysm, to be young and strange and terrifying.

Míriel tugged up the hem of her skirt, and clambered past a slab of fallen rock, the edges still sheared clean. She found herself smiling, the expression shifting her face, something lightening inside her as she let herself test muscles long unused.

Was this it? The view was pleasant enough, at least, stretching out towards the sea, a hazy grey-blue this far away.

“Here!” she called, and heard a bird-screech, a flash of plummeting white wings as Elwing circled and dived. Hard fluttering as the gull braked above the ground, and then a woman stepping down to it, pushing her hair back from her face and stretching her arms after the flight.

She carried a covered basket, presumably in the same fashion she stored her clothes while winged. Míriel preferred not to ask, the magics involved being so convenient.

“You think?” Elwing asked, frowning as she glanced around – the sun was in her eyes, Míriel thought. “It seems – “

Her ancestress hesitated.

“I think it’s only proper to celebrate,” Míriel said, serenely. “My husband always so wanted to reach Valinor! I want to congratulate him. We can pour out some of the wine, even.”

Elwing stepped from foot to foot, then closed with her, dropping to sit beside her. Míriel reached for the basket, hunting out bread and preserves, and the heavy clink of a bottle.

“Well,” Elwing said, eventually, reaching out a hand. “I can drink to my surviving descendants, at least. Although I gather Calion’s status is somewhat ambiguous, in that respect.”

“If he wants immortality I think he should be allowed it,” Míriel said, pouring. She glanced around herself, at the sun on the rocks, the insects humming around the wildflowers. “I think, all things considered, this is a better end than he deserves.”

Elwing tugged at a grass-blade.

“As long as you’re happy,” she said, at length; and glanced up to smile at Míriel, who returned it, beaming. The wind was fresh, the air clear, the wine rich on her tongue.

“To surviving, then,” Míriel said, and Elwing raised her glass, her eyes warm as she looked back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/163558711997/hey-crocordile-clouds-had-threatened-but-the


	12. "wants and wishes", for legendariumladiesapril

Míriel’s fingers were a gilded flicker, weaving Valinor’s light into their motions. She propped her feet against the bench as she sewed, the curve of her belly rounded beneath her girdle, frowning a little in concentration.

All things grew with profusion, as if it were always summer. Vines nodded from the overhead trellis. Occasionally, a hand darted out, into which they obediently let fall a grape; Míriel ate without particular attention, juice staining her lips.

The light was _very_ bright.

“It is considered _polite_ ,” Míriel said, after a while, frowning at her needle as it flashed gold fire between her fingers, “to make oneself possible to interact with, when present – “

A breath of warmth, shadows altering, and a figure stepped out onto the path, taking solidity as it went. Arien tossed her hair back from her face, looking down at Míriel in curiosity.

Míriel, unperturbed, bit off the end of a silken thread.

“Holy One,” she said, courteously but without reverence. “A pleasure. Thank you.”

“Broideress,” Arien said, after a moment, a furrow drawing itself between her brows. “How goes your work?”

Míriel shook out the cloth in her hands. The pattern had something of a fractal and something of a wave, flowing in a way that drew the eye.

“It satisfies,” she said, the curve of her mouth suggesting more than the words did. “And the other, as well. Here.”

Míriel held out her hand, and Arien, after a brief uncertainty, gave over her own. She was taller than the Eldar; Míriel tugged her down, settling the warm fingers over her stomach.

Arien’s eyes were too bright to meet. Nonetheless, Míriel glanced at her face, unable to resist a smile.

“It _moves_ ,” Arien said, surprised. “Is that not – “

She hesitated.

“Disconcerting? Yes, at times.” Míriel held out her hand again; a vine swayed into it, and she bit into the grape with easy assurance. “But it’s no bad thing, to have a little restlessness in a child.” Her smile turned inwards, private, as Arien studied her, thoughtful.

“Your child – “

“Yes?”

Arien paused, and then sat down by the bench, flicking her robes out around her with careless grace.

“Is it not strange, to carry another spirit within your own?”

“Terribly strange, and a delight,” Míriel said. She shifted, resettling a cushion against her lower back. “Is the experience so foreign to you? I suppose it must be.”

Arien made a face, and Míriel laughed, a clear sound like the chime of a bell.

“You do seem pleased by it,” Arien said, tipping her head to one side, before she smiled back. “And the child?”

“ _My_ child,” said Míriel, licking grape juice from her mouth, “will burn more brightly than any of us. Just wait, and you’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/159388221332/a-try-at-the-legendariumladiesapril-wants-and


	13. miriel and inzilbeth

The sarcophagus swayed ahead on the shoulders of the pall-bearers, gilded and bejewelled; the hired mourners wailed. Inzilbêth stretched her feet in her litter, and hid her smile behind her veil.

It was ironic, in a way. Gimilzôr, who had never permitted her the pilgrimage to the Meneltarma while he lived, now to rest with his ancestors at its feet. A man who had little respect for tradition or ritual, he had nonetheless had his own superstitions; certainly he would have dreamed of no other grave than among the Tombs of the Kings.

Inzilbêth, magnanimous in victory, had directed the funeral as he would have wished, in all its gaudy spectacle. The ability to be gracious to a defeated foe was a pleasure in itself.

“Grandmother,” Zimraphel murmured, beside her, and Inzilbêth schooled her face. “What happens next?”

“Another three speeches before the burial, unfortunately, dear - ”

“ _Grandmother_. Father is thinking of nothing but the coronation. But - you know what all Gimilkhâd’s people are saying, that Grandfather would have wanted _him_ as his heir - ”

It was, in its way, a reasonable question. Inzilbêth watched the straight set of her son’s back, among the pall-bearers - _both_ her sons, Gimilkhâd following in Inziladûn’s footsteps, for what must be the first time in years.

“Gimilkhâd will do nothing,” Inzilbêth said, gently. “Zimraphel. I _know_ my children. Gimilkhâd will complain, bitterly, but overturning our laws of succession is beyond him.” Gimilkhâd’s weakness was Inzilbêth’s private sorrow; but there had been no protecting him, after her husband had understood his defeat in Inziladûn.

“Pharazôn says - ”

Inzilbêth found herself smiling, again, despite herself. Zimraphel - _Míriel_ , in the high tongue Inzilbêth would have her speak as her birthright - was a treasure of a grandchild.

“Pharazôn is very young,” Inzilbêth told her granddaughter, as a woman in her second century might speak to a child of sixty. And then: “Zimraphel, your father will be king, and you will be queen after. Trust us. Have faith.”

Inzilbêth was only sorry that she would not live to see it.

“Grandmother - ”

Inzilbêth pressed her hand, and her grandaughter, reluctantly, smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/155444881057/if-youre-in-the-mood-inzilbeth-and-inziladun


	14. "defining the relationship"

The fire burns high in the hearth, warming the room; curtains closed, the heat puts a pleasant flush to Tyelperinquar’s cheeks, rising as you touch your fingers to his skin, investigating. He laughs, stepping back, and you follow, returning his smile.

“Annatar - ”

You kiss him, taking his face in your hands; still feeling his smile against your mouth, though he tries, half-heartedly, to push you away from him.

After a moment - long enough to make the point - you allow it.

“Tyelperinquar,” you say, putting a note of confusion in your voice. “What is it? Did you not want…?”

He makes a rueful face, taking your hand to twine his fingers with yours. The firelight glints in his hair, braided back at the temple; he hesitates, biting at his lip.

“I _did_ ,” he says, “but - Annatar, I wanted to actually _talk_ to you, not just - ”

You blink, surprised, and cast your mind over the various projects you have in hand with him. None of them seem at a particularly urgent stage.

“Is it the containment problem, on the Rings?” you ask. “I really think we’re most of the way there, though I accept I didn’t _entirely_ expect the failure to produce such a dramatic result.”

“And it’s not as if that wall was actually supporting anything, anyway - no, I mean, we _did_ talk about that, although I think I have another idea, if - ”

You find yourself warming to the topic. “Tell me,” you say, pressing your fingers together and smiling at him.

“It’s - ” 

He starts to smile back, and then catches himself, making a sound of frustration.

“Annatar, I meant - I wanted to talk about _us_ \- ”

You’re starting to feel a little frustrated yourself.

“Tyelperinquar,” you say, stepping in close to him, letting his hand fall away from yours. You reach up, and stroke through his hair, compensating for the loss. “If you could be more specific, please?”

“Annatar - ”

He bites his lip, _again_. You force yourself to patience, twisting your fingers through one of his braids, tugging slightly.

“Annatar,” he says, “what _am_ I to you? I know how I - that _you_ \- ”

“Is _that_ what you’ve been worrying about?” you say. You feel somewhere between relieved and annoyed, at the sheer simplicity of the question. “Tyelperinquar, _honestly_. Of course you’re _mine_.“

“That isn’t _exactly_ what I - ”

You kiss him, again, arms around him, a hand twisted in his hair to pull him close.

“We can talk about the containment problem,” you say, generously, “or we can do _this_ , and given that we really need to wait for the next set of experimental results - ”

He makes another sound of frustration; but when you kiss him, this time, he slides his hands down your spine and kisses back, mouth pressed hard against your own.

What he _is_ to you. As if there could be any doubt, you think, fondly. And push him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/155361449602/how-about-the-defining-the-relationship-talk


	15. elwing meeting olwe

The city arched into the rock like a wave cresting; there were towers and archways and the white sails of the ships in the bay, stone worn smooth by time, carvings delicate as lace. And the _people_ -

Alqualondë was -

Elwing dug her nails into her palms, trying to make sense of it. She had been born in Doriath; she had _seen_ cities; only, it had been such a long voyage -

The Teleri she had met, on the shore, had been almost embarrassingly kind, offering her what she was told were travel-rations and working-clothes to replace her own much-mended skirts. She had not liked to say how fine it all seemed; but she had done her best to thank them, after she had managed to stop weeping.

_Olue_ , one of them had said, and that was a name she thought she recognised, in all the bewildering strangeness of their speech, which was neither the Sindarin of her birth nor the Quenya her husband’s people sometimes spoke amongst themselves. _We must take her to - the king will know what to do -_

She was Dior’s daughter and Lúthien’s granddaughter, who had faced down Powers alone, with only her voice and a cloak made from her own cropped hair. Elwing straightened her spine, and refused to be afraid.

It was only a short wait, in the small, private room her escorts showed her to, with nervous murmurings. Elwing bore it patiently, resisting the urge to pace.

At the noise in the corridor - voices, urgent - she felt her head snap round, despite herself.

The man who stopped in the threshold, staring at her, was tall, and silver-haired, his braids set with pearls. Elwing drew herself up, fiercely -

“ _His_ \- ” the man was saying, staring at her, his eyes wide and startled, and then another stream of words she could not quite seem to catch. “ _Elue’s_ \- look at - oh, _child_ \- ”

There were words she had meant to say; she could not quite seem to find them.

“ _Elwing_ ,” the man who must be the king of the Teleri, and Elwing’s great-grandfather’s brother, said, wonderingly, coming forward and taking her hands; and then she was crying again, despite her best efforts, but somehow it seemed not to matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/155305973172/elwing-meeting-olwe


	16. galadriel's involvement (where tolkien forgot to mention)

“Hm,” Finrod had said, absently inspecting a bracelet, “no, I’m not sure you’d get on with Haleth, she’s rather – she’s a very _direct_ person.”

“ _I’m_ a very direct person.”

“Yes, of course,” Finrod had said, giving you the insufferably fond look that was, probably, about thirty percent of the reason you kept forgetting to visit Nargothrond. “Anyway, I was speaking to Celeborn, and _he_ said – “

It was a fairly transparent diversion, but you’d allowed it, because _you_ were fond of your brother, too. You hadn’t forgotten the conversation, though.

In person, Haleth of the Haladin was a little less tall than your shoulder, with grey in her hair and skin that looked – _weathered_ , you found yourself thinking, like a tree or a rock. Mortal aging still disconcerted you. She looked so _solid_ , not at all like someone who might fade in only another twenty or thirty years.

She was also holding up a length of your weaving, and making an – odd – face at it.

“And this is a – gift?” she was saying.

“Yes,” you said, pleased. People in Beleriand were much more wary of strangers than they had been in Valinor – well, naturally they were. You’d introduced yourself as Finrod’s sister, but you’d thought bringing along some guest-gifts might help, as well – nothing _too_ fine, although you thought the embroidered borders had come out rather well. “There’s more in the basket, if you like.”

A child ran up to Haleth as she transferred her attention to the basket at your feet, and she put a hand on its head without appearing to particularly notice, letting it lean against her hip. You tried a smile; it clutched a handful of her tunic, shrinking back.

There were so _many_ children in mortal settlements, as well. None of them even seemed to think it was remarkable.

“Well,” Haleth said, eventually. “Come on, then, let’s put this somewhere safe. Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you like stew.”

It wasn’t as if you really _needed_ to eat until you were back in Doriath proper.

“I can sing after the meal, if you like,” you suggested, generously, and Haleth’s face went – odd, again.

“We’ll see,” she said; and you followed her, with – you realised – the strange feeling you sometimes had around Finrod, that you were, somehow, part of a joke in a way you were not quite sure you could understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/147703512452/galadriel-not-being-where-the-silmarillion-says


	17. gothic horror thingol/melian

Her voice blends with the song of the nightingales. Is their song. Forest and darkness and starlight twine around him; when he stumbles through the underbrush, the stroke of leaves across his face is her touch against his skin.

_You_ , she says. Does not say. As much as to say the night sky had all at once looked down and noticed him; she sees him and he cannot be unseen.

When he turns she is there. She is the maze herself as well as its heart.

He takes her hand.

_Dear gift_ , he will call her later; and, _beloved_. That will come in another time, when she gives words back to him. But for now, there is the light in her face, and her hand in his.

She will never leave him. Call it a promise, if you like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/145406802377/celegorm-entering-huan-in-a-dog-show-or-if


	18. beleg and turin, partying

Bar-en-Danwedh was not a place to encourage merriment. Its halls and carven rooms must once have been spacious and imposing; now, inhabited by Men, they were cramped and uncomfortable, scattered here and there with the leavings of a dead people, cobwebs and rust.

Túrin’s band had responded by striking up a fine trade in ghost stories, greeted with either jeers or shivers, depending on the mood. That night was a cheerful one – a group of orcs fallen upon and destroyed, and (more importantly, as far as most of the men were concerned) their plunder seized, casks of beer and sacks of flour and grain – and therefore marked by the mixture of boasting and good-natured mockery that had disconcerted Túrin, when he first left Doriath; but now began to feel comforting in its familiarity.

The hall was lit by fire, game stewing in the pot, and jugs of beer already being passed around, until the shadows seemed to draw back, leaving a warm noisy space that felt – homely; if not like a home, as such. Mîm and his son were nowhere to be seen; only Beleg, of the band, seemed set apart from the rest, frowning a little as he watched the Men around him.

Túrin made his way to his side, covering a stumble by clapping Andróg on the shoulder as he passed, giving the other man a reassuring grin. Beleg glanced at him, sharply.

“Celebrating your victory?”

“ _Our_ victory,” Túrin said, settling beside Beleg, the other’s body warm against his. “One of many. The Orcs will learn to fear us, if they do not already.”

“I’ll grant you it was good work,” Beleg said, and then paused as Túrin beamed at him. “Well. I won’t say you’re wrong to be pleased by it, though you seem more cheered than I’ve often known you.”

“Should I not be?” Túrin said, and slung an arm over Beleg’s shoulders. The beer was bitter stuff, but strong and warming; the harsh edge to the taste had almost ceased to be noticeable. “Victory, a hot meal, good company – what more could I want?”

Beleg sighed, leaning into him; but though reluctantly, he returned Túrin’s smile.

“I’ll see if I find you so easily contented in the morning,” Beleg said, and Túrin laughed, ignoring Andróg’s sidelong glance from across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/145199235502/beleg-and-turin-preferrably-shippy-partying


	19. tar-miriel + religion

Your father was named – named himself – Tar-Palantir, the far-seeing. It had been a long time since any ruler of Númenor had taken a name in the High-Elven tongue: not even your father spoke it as more than a matter of lore and ritual, of memory rather than meaning.

_Lord Seer_ , the court had called him, in familiar Adûnaic.

And – on the streets, in muttered rumours; and in hidden passages and veiled alcoves in the court, where the King’s Men put aside their pretence of loyalty –

_Sorcerer_. _Fanatic_. _Deluded._

You wonder what they call _you_. If they trouble to call you anything.

The smoke in the air is acrid, making your eyes sting, leaving your throat raw. You lean out from your balcony: the view across the city is excellent, all the way across to the temple on the hill, with its dome of blackened silver.

“What do you _want_ from me?” you say, out loud, gripping the balcony-rail so hard that your hands ache. “What do you expect me to _do_ about this?”

All your dreams are of the sea, now. You walk the sunken halls, fish darting through the broken windows; watch bodies drift and rot, slowly subliming into coral and pearl. Sometimes you stand on the mountain and see it coming, the ocean rising up before you into a wall of water like black glass, that crushes the air from your lungs before you have time to drown.

“Father – father kept _trying_ ,” you say, swallowing, as the smoke pricks at your eyes, “and it never helped anything at all, he was – he said he _trusted in the Valar_ , do you know that? What did you ever do for him, to be _worth_ all that trust?”

The Eagles no longer nest on the Meneltarma; the ships of the Eldar no longer sail from the West. The only god left to Númenor stands in the temple your husband built for him, smiling as he feeds the last remnants of the White Tree to the flames.

“I’m not doing _anything_ ,” you say, to whatever might be listening. “Do you want me to go tell Pharazôn this is a bad idea? That it won’t end well? Of course it won’t. He knows that already.”

You have seen the admiration in your husband’s face, when he looks at his _adviser_ ; you have seen the trapped-animal look that also flickers there, from time to time, when he thinks himself unobserved. You have very little love for Pharazôn, but you do, on occasion, manage to stir yourself to pity.

“I’m not – “

You pause. Swallow, again.

“I _won’t_ try and stop this,” you say, defiant. “If you want intervention, try doing something _yourselves_. Either help us or _leave us alone_. I’m – “

The smoke clings; coils.

“ _I’m_ the one refusing you,” you manage, at last. “I could act and I won’t, are you hearing me? I _won’t_. So if you’re going to punish _anyone_ , it should be me. I’m the Queen. It’s my _responsibility_. No-one else’s. I should take the blame. I’m the _only_ one who should be, who should – “

The ocean takes everything, in your dreams; and there is nothing left.

“I thought the gods were supposed to be _better_ than Men,” you say, and put your hands over your face, trying not to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/144971739767/tar-m%C3%ADriel-religion-is-it-a-source-of-comfort


	20. luthien and galadriel, after the former returns from death

The moon is starting to set when Lúthien steps out of the dancing and drops down next to you on the grass, a little out of breath, her eyes shining. The musicians are still playing: laughter and song drift past them, as the dancers touch hands, circle, weave past each other, swift and joyful.

“Cousin,” she says, smiling.

“Lúthien – “ you start, and then – find that you have no more words to return, your own smile wavering.

Mortality sits upon Lúthien lightly, as yet. A child of Valinor, where the dead return to life, your cousin’s rebirth is less strange to you than to the Grey-elves around you – and yet for all that, your cousin still carries with her the terrible quality of a miracle; an act of the gods, walking before you in the flesh.

You close your eyes for a moment; when you reopen them, Lúthien is giving you a look of sympathy.

“Have you told Thingol?” you ask.

“He hasn’t actually asked,” Lúthien says, tilting her head to one side, looking a little amused. “It’s not as if I’ve tried to hide that I’m leaving. I mean, I don’t think he could lock me up in Hirilorn _again_ , even if he tried.”

You had been there, a few days ago, when she first stepped back into the Thousand Caves, Beren walking beside her, both of them strong and healthy and _alive_. Once the first rush of shock had passed, Thingol’s desperate relief at his daughter’s return had been painful to witness: his stilted, faltering attempts at kindness to her husband almost as much so.

It wasn’t even that Lúthien had been angry with him. She had simply watched him, remote and unmoved, as if her father no longer had the power to touch her emotions at all; and Thingol’s pride had seemed to fall in on itself a little further, every time he looked at her.

“You could stay,” you say; and then press on, as Lúthien starts to speak, pity crossing her features. “No, Lúthien, I _know_ what happened – but your father isn’t everyone. We all missed you. And – and weren’t you happy, here, before?”

Because - you will always be, in some ways, an outsider to Doriath. _Amanya_ , a word from the language your uncle has forbidden, light in your eyes and gold in your hair, raised in a land with no true darkness and no threat always on its borders. And yet –

You love this land. You love the beauty of the Thousand Caves; the brightness of the stars; the song of nightingales that drifts through the forests. You met Celeborn here, and would have loved it only for that; but you would never have _stayed_ – you, who came to Middle-earth in search of your own kingdom, and instead lingered for years within the Girdle – if you had not loved it so well.

(It will always be with you: if you had been there, in Nargothrond – but the thought is of little use.)

Lúthien - sighs, and leans forward. Her embrace is warm, as she pulls you against her; as you raise your arms to return the gesture, you feel her heartbeat, her pulse racing against yours, mortal-quick. You turn your head to feel her cheek against yours.

Then she pulls back.

“I can’t,” she says, simply. “And you know I can’t, cousin.”

“You – “

“You were _there_ ,” she says. “Galadriel. _You_ stood by and did nothing to help, no more than anyone else did – don’t tell me you _tried_. If arguing with Father didn’t work you could have found something that _did_. You don’t – I know you don’t stop trying just because something’s _difficult_ , cousin, you crossed the Grinding Ice and found your way here, you fought against your own family when they made themselves Kinslayers, _you could have found a way_. 

“But you didn’t. I lived here my whole life, cousin, and there was _no-one_ who would take my part when it mattered, no-one at all. And so I can’t stay. And you know that.”

You close your eyes, again.

“Yes,” you say. “I understand.”

You love Doriath. And –

Swords; and light; and blood that runs over stone. You cannot see what you would avert: only the knowledge, of violence and death; and the terrible certainty that it is, already, too late.

There is pity, still, in Lúthien’s gaze; but nothing, nothing at all, like mercy. And you understand – all too well - why Melian turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/138750363047/arrogantemu-asked-me-for-an-encounter-between


	21. maedhros helping fingon put on his crown

The mirror glints in the grey dawn. Fingon’s reflection looks back at him, pale and unhappy despite the finery he wears.

His father had always managed to look – dignified. Kingly. Fingon had not realised, until lately, the value of that – how much his father’s stubborn, unmoveable patience had freed Fingon to be careless and quick; how much he had relied on having his father’s strength always to fall back on.

_Fingon the Valiant_ , he thinks, bitterly. It had been easy to be brave, with a sword in his hand and an enemy before him; but to bear the weight of trust and responsibility that his father had carried unfaltering took a different kind of courage.

“You look well,” Maedhros says, sitting on the bed to pull on his boots; Fingon looks at him, shown past his shoulder in the corner of the mirror. Maedhros moves stiffly in the morning cold, a little clumsy with the buckles – Fingon has long since learned not to offer help – but a faint smile crooks at his mouth as he glances up to meet Fingon’s reflected gaze.

“Is that the politician speaking,” Fingon asks, “or is that Maedhros Feanorion, or – “

“All of them,” Maedhros says. “Blue and silver suits you; whoever tailored your robes knew their work, to make you look the warrior-king. And very elegant, besides, Findo.”

“That must be the politician, then,” Fingon says, “since my cousin Maedhros has never been inclined to flattery.”

“My cousin Fingon, however, has been known to stoop to fishing for compliments,” Maedhros says, his mouth curving further upwards. “I would praise you all you liked, if we were at leisure; but you have liegemen to impress, and I – have your liegemen to assure that I have no desire to be impressive.”

He stands, crossing to the dresser, and opens the catch of the box that stands there, with an easy flick of his hand. The crown of the King of the Noldor in Exile is a circlet of mithril, beautifully but simply wrought, set with diamond: strength, for a people at war, more than ornament.

Maedhros looks down at it, his gaze unreadable, and Fingon – remembers a time some centuries ago, now, when Maedhros had knelt to his father at the shore of Lake Mithrim, gaunt and wounded, all too recently risen from his sickbed. The crown of the Noldor had been a plain silver circlet, then, with little to show that it came from Feanor’s own hand: they had needed their forges for weapons and steel, without time to spend on symbolism and jewels. And Finwe’s crown had been lost with the treasury at Formenos.

“Here,” Maedhros says, turning to him, lifting the metal between hand and prosthetic. He raises the crown and sets it on Fingon’s head, settling it carefully into place; Fingon feels the weight of it, the bright mithril lending its shine to his eyes. In the mirror, he looks half a stranger to himself, a figure from a tapestry – _the High King, Fingon Fingolfinion_. _Finwe Findekano_ , he thinks, trying the phrase out.

Behind him, Maedhros looks older and scarred, the dawn light stealing the colour from his hair, deepening the shadows around his eyes.

“It will all be well, Findo,” Maedhros says, his voice steady; and Fingon wonders, briefly, if Maedhros is trying to reassure Fingon or himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/138419759882/maedhros-helping-fingon-put-on-his-crown


	22. celebrimbor is interested, annatar...isn't

You watch Annatar’s hands as he works: the precision of movement, faultlessly coordinated; the easy, graceful strength. You remember, at such times, that his body must be as much a tool for him as any stylus or cutter; that the long fingers, the skin and muscle and bone, are as much a work of craft as any of those you have made together.

What you want is to touch him. To let him touch you. To put yourself under his hands and find out what he would make of you; to learn the feel of that graceful precision for yourself.

Annatar glances up at you; smiles. His hair is bound up plainly for the forge, his adornments removed; but his eyes are warm bright gold, and the curve of his mouth is lovely as any jewel.

“Here, Tyelpe,” he says, “let me show you what I’m doing – “

“You work very – quickly,” you find yourself saying, inanely, stumbling over the word; but Annatar only smiles again, as he reaches out to take your hand and guide you through the steps, his fingers careful as they move over your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/138403067767/are-you-still-doing-the-prompt-thing-if-so


	23. fingon, aredhel, a policy dispute

The worst thing about it had been Maedhros’ smile.

In the middle of the shouting, Fingon’s father raising his voice as Maglor, desperately, tried to pretend there was no coldly vicious insult lying under Curufin’s words, even Finrod starting to snap back in return –

Maedhros had leaned forward, and spoken, quietly; and the whole room had abruptly silenced themselves to listen.

And –

It wasn’t that Maedhros had looked _pleased_. It was a bitter, wry twist to his mouth, that said, _yes, I know what you’re thinking. I know and I will use it_. The miserable, guilty way Maglor looked whenever his brother spoke; the awful, forced kindness with which Fingolfin insisted on addressing his nephew; the way Artanis bit her lip and lowered her gaze, unable to say that even her Kinslaying cousin had not suffered enough.

The rawness of his wounds was still terrible to look at; but how much more terrible, to look _away_ , to flinch from meeting Maedhros’ eyes; to refuse to acknowledge the mutilated stump of his wrist, that Fingon himself had –

“You’re being _stupid_ ,” Aredhel said; and Fingon spun round to meet her gaze, realising only then that she had followed him out.

“ _Aredhel_ – “

“Oh, don’t _Aredhel_ me like that. You keep looking at Maedhros, and wincing; and then looking at him again, and all the while Father’s trying to be _diplomatic_ , and you’re sitting there biting your lip and feeling wretched, because you can’t decide whether you’re still angry with him or not – “

“I’m not _angry_ with him,” Fingon protested, appalled. “ _He_ didn’t – “

“So it’s even _worse_ , of course.” Aredhel gave him a frank look, one hand propped on her hip, armed as she always seemed to be in Beleriand with hunting-bow and white-fletched arrows. The hawk-focus of her gaze was, briefly, unsettling; Fingon found himself remembering, a little uneasily, that his sister was a great deal more intelligent than she liked people to think.

“You’re thinking, what, that what happened to him cancelled everything out? How many years of captivity in Angband does it take to pay back the lives of the Teleri he killed? How about Elenwë, does getting hung by the wrist from a mountain-peak make up for the Grinding Ice – “

“That _wasn’t_ his fault,” Fingon snapped back, stepping forward. “He tried to talk sense into Uncle, everyone _said_ – “

“Well, he didn’t actually _manage_ it, did he?” Aredhel looked up at him, unintimidated. “If _I’d_ been there, I’d have kicked Uncle over and sat on him until he came to his senses; it doesn’t sound to _me_ like Maedhros was trying all that hard. Of course you’re angry with him, Findo. I’m damn unhappy with him myself. And then he has to go and make it _worse_ by making you feel _sorry_ for him.”

“You weren’t _there_ , Ireth – “ Fingon’s voice wavered. “You should have – what he _looked_ like, when I –“

“I know, I _know_.” Aredhel – sighed, ran a hand back through her hair. “It’s alright, brother. But – think about it?”

Fingon sighed himself, and Aredhel stepped forward, impulsively, to hug him, resting her cheek on his shoulder, as he returned the embrace.

“Anyway, next time Curvo says anything like that, I’m going to punch him in his stupid face,” she said, her voice a little muffled by the angle. “Then you can all be angry at _me_ for a while, and I can get kicked out and go do something useful instead.”

“Aredhel – “

“I bet he cries. Curvo hates getting hit.”

Fingon considered, resting his chin against her hair, his arms around her shoulders.

“Do you think, if we both – “

“Can’t make it look staged,” Aredhel said promptly, stepping back. “Father would notice, and then he’d make us both sit through _all_ the talks just out of spite. I had the idea first, I’m using it.”

“Alright,” Fingon suggested, “but you should probably do your best to get Curufin kicked out too, in that case – “

“It’s like you think I’m not even _trying_ ,” Aredhel said, with a grin; and Fingon managed to smile, something in him lightening as he followed her back towards the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/138237644227/fingon-aredhel-a-policy-dispute


	24. sauron rationalises having A Feeling

You weigh the pendant in your hand, then turn it between your fingers, holding it up to the light for study: the colour of the gemstones seems to shift, glinting indigo-purple-gold, suspended in the delicate coiled metal of the setting.

“Yes,” you say, satisfied. It’s not _quite_ the way you would have made it, but – “I _do_ like this, Tyelpe; this is very fine work.”

Tyelperinquar – lights up, eyes bright; and you smile back at him, pleased.

“I did think – “ he starts to say; and then – stops, swaying back slightly on his feet as he yawns, covering his mouth and rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

“I suppose you need to sleep,” you say, feeling generous. It seems a remarkably pointless use of both your time, but you’re aware that Elves and Men alike begin to tire without it. “Let’s move on to the next part in – “ You glance over at the window. The workshop is lit by clear lamplight, but you can see the horizon starting to brighten with dawn. “This evening, say?”

“I might as well stay up, now,” Tyelperinquar says, following your gaze. “I doubt I’ll notice missing a night, especially – “

“Three,” you say, absently, crossing to the storeroom as Tyelperinquar sits down at the workbench to sort through the tools scattered there.

“Hmm?”

“You haven’t slept in three. Do you prefer to sleep at night, by the way, or is it simply a matter of habit? I suppose planning your activity to take place under Arien’s light must have been useful during the War, but there are tribes of your people east of the mountains who still prefer the stars – “

“Practicality, mostly,” Tyelperinquar says, rubbing again at his eyes. “It was never dark at all, when I was young; and then we spent so much time hiding in fortresses and caverns – “

You pause, looking at him, and set the materials aside.

You want him at his _best_.

“Tyelperinquar,” you say, stepping across to him and pausing to rest a hand in his hair, as he blinks at you, looking tired. “Go to _bed_. It can wait.”

“I’m – “

“ _Tyelpe_ ,” you say, gently, amused. You stroke your fingers downward, brushing past his earrings; he sways, slightly.

You wouldn’t use him carelessly, not without need; no more than you would fail to maintain any tool in your hand, or allow the metals you work with to rust unheeded.

“We have time,” you say, soft and indulgent; you smooth your hand through his hair again, finding yourself smiling once more. “Take better care of yourself, Tyelpe. I wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” he says, his tone complaining; but his eyes start to slide half-closed under your touch, and you lean a little closer as he returns your smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/138039777442/ooh-prompts-uhwell-since-you-know-how-i


	25. celebrimbor/sauron, some horricute working together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as [But Exceedingly Fine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906931).

“Wait,” you say, pulling the map closer. “That town wasn’t there fifty years ago, surely – “

“You begin to see the difficulty,” Annatar says, with a half-smile. “It’s not especially difficult to learn what’s happening in Númenor, but a few years seem to make an extraordinary difference to mortals. Do you know, I think some of them have new generations in as little as twenty-five years?”

You blink, trying not to feel appalled. Of course you know that Men can reach adulthood at that age, but –

Then it clicks together in your head.

“No wonder they’ve been starting to settle in Middle-earth, then,” you say. “Even if the Númenóreans have children at a more reasonable age – say, fifty or a hundred – “

“Yes, entirely,” Annatar says. He glances down at the map again, a strand of golden hair falling across his face. “One might wonder if the Valar planned to force their favourites to expand eastwards, but I have to say, I rather doubt Manwë’s capable of that sort of strategy.”

“I hear he does _occasionally_ remember there’s another continent east of the Pelóri,” you say mildly. “Perhaps someone drew him a map.”

“Tyelperinquar, I hope you’re not suggesting anywhere outside Valinor actually _matters_ ,” Annatar says, attempting a look of innocent surprise. “It’s almost as if you think the Valar are possible to criticise.”

You raise an eyebrow. You can’t say you’re _altogether_ comfortable agreeing with Annatar on the point, but -

“Well, it’s certainly not as if I know any Powers who are ever wrong _themselves_ – “

“I should _hope_ not,” Annatar says, managing to pretend at injury for a moment, until amusement overtakes his expression; he gives you a warm smile. “Tyelpe, I really _am_ glad to have you here; you do _know_ that.”

You sigh.

“I do know,” you say; and Annatar reaches out to you, very gentle, to stroke your hair back behind your ear, his touch making you feel comforted despite yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/137945341577/promptings-celebrimborsauron-maybe-some


	26. melian teaching a young luthien to brush her hair

You knock on the door, then slide in, to where your mother is humming as she sets up her loom, skeins of rose and blue-dyed linen in a basket at her feet.

“ _Mama_ – “ you say; and dart into her lap as she turns and holds out her arms to you, tugging you close against her.

“Lúthien, my flower,” Melian says, as you tuck your head under her chin; you can hear the laughter running beneath her voice. “My darling, you have leaves in your hair. Have you been tree-climbing again?”

“I found a squirrel,” you say, briefly diverted.

“Did you like it?”

“Maybe?” You think about it. “It made a noise at me, like – “ You imitate the high chattering sound.

“Perhaps you can make up your mind when you see it again, then,” your mother says, smiling. “Here – “

She runs her fingers through your hair, a few brief, gentle strokes that leave it smooth and shining, the tangles falling easily out, then begins to plait it, her fingers flickering through the strands, swift and precise.

“How do you do that?” you ask, distracted.

“My petal, you _do_ know how to comb your hair, even if you prefer to tie knots in it.”

“No, like _that_ – “

Melian considers. Then - your mother runs a hand through your hair again, humming a note; and this time you feel the way her touch settles all through you, very gentle, soft as summer rain.

You think about the way it feels. Then you shake your head, and all your braids come out at once, the strands unbinding themselves in an instant so that your hair falls down again, as far as the small of your back.

“Perhaps not _quite_ like that,” your mother says, smiling again; and you wrinkle your nose, sighing, even as she wraps her arms around you and pulls you closer, the fabric of her dress warm beneath your cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/137831439917/maybe-melian-teaching-a-young-luthien-how-to


	27. celebrimbor + sauron, tyelpe wins

The cell: smooth grey stone, windowless, lit nonetheless with a glow of sourceless light.

In the centre, an intricate tracery of copper and gold, scattered with the glint of crystal. It flows outward in precise, concentric circles, laid carefully into the granite of the floor, the design graceful enough that it could be nothing more than ornamental.

Annatar, within it, looks entirely composed; smiling, faintly. His hair flows golden down his back, the folds of his robes pooled elegantly around him on the floor where he kneels, tranquil and patient. You could almost think that he –

“Tyelpe,” Annatar says; his smile warms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “How pleasant to see you again.”

“Annatar,” you say. “I’m – “

You – stall. You _planned_ this, you _knew_ what you wanted to say, but – the words won’t seem to come.

Annatar gives you a look of sympathy, despite the amusement he still shows. 

“Oh, _Tyelpe_. Shall I begin, then? I really _am_ pleased to see you again, you know; I hope you don’t think otherwise.”

“I know,” you say. And – you do believe him, even if you shouldn’t. “I did miss you, Annatar. I wish that – that things hadn’t – “

“Well,” Annatar says, tilting his head to one side. “I can’t say this is the way _I_ wanted things to end up, either, really; but we all work with the outcomes we’re given.”

He lifts his hands. The manacles show heavy on his wrists, shifting patterns showing in the silver-grey alloy; anchored to the floor, the chains coil before him, links clinking faintly at the movement.

“But honestly, Tyelpe – “ Annatar smiles again. “Don’t you think this is all rather excessive? I do know when I’m beaten – I can admit it, even if I don’t particularly _like_ to.” A slightly rueful glance. “If you want to talk about _restitution_ , it’s rather difficult to make up for anything as long as I’m stuck in here.”

“Yes,” you say. “But I still can’t let you out, Annatar. I’m sorry.”

You watch him look downwards, raising a hand to study the metal that binds him; his mouth twists, slightly.

“I am, as well,” he says. “Please, Tyelpe. How can – I can’t _do_ anything here. Surely you can see that this is pointless for everyone.”

“Annatar,” you say, very calmly. “I don’t think you even know what you’re apologising _for_.”

“Tyelpe, I _am_ sorry – “

“For _what_?” you ask. “That it didn’t _work_? You’ve lied and lied to me, Annatar. I’m - I was stupid enough, to trust you, before; I’m not going to make the same mistake again now.”

He – hisses, frustrated. Briefly, light traces along the patterns of wire and crystal that surround him, a wash of power surging out and back, caught and confined; for a moment, Annatar gives the design a look of pure fury, vicious.

“ _Tyelperinquar_ – “

You – step back.

“I’ll come back,” you say.

“How _charitable_ ,” Annatar snaps. “Do grace me with your presence again, Tyelpe; I’m so _very_ grateful that you condescended to visit.”

“I will,” you say. “You haven’t given me much choice, Annatar. But I _am_ sorry.”

You meet his eyes once more, and turn to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/137768978722/celebrimbor-sauron-tyelpe-wins-unambiguously


	28. untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as [But Exceedingly Fine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906931).

You skim the letter again, smiling to yourself a little. _To Tar-Mairon, King of Kings: respectful greetings from your servant -_

Mortal agents really can be _useful_ sometimes, you think. You don’t want to provoke open war again with Númenor at present, or with the Eldar in the West - but you can build your strength far beyond what any of your enemies realise, here in the East; and in the meantime -

Raids. Bandits. A little exertion of your own power, for the sake of rivers that flood; roads rendered unexpectedly impassable. The hostility of the local tribesfolk to the Númenóreans - and really, you hardly had to encourage that at _all_ ; only a few suggestions, here and there, and some trivial help with weapons and armour and intelligence.

Nothing to do with _you_ : and so very difficult for Minastir to track down and stamp out. Once begun, in fact, it becomes almost self-perpetuating.

It _is_ pleasant, you think, when one of your stratagems works so well.

You glance up at the window of your study, noting the angle of the light: not long until sundown, now. Barad-dûr is rarely less active after night falls - the climate means that most of your servants find it easiest to work early in the morning, breaking for noon before starting the second shift around dusk - but you’re almost finished here, for the present, and -

You let your awareness flicker outwards. The fortress here is _yours_ , from its foundations to its heights; it takes little more than a thought to find one of its inhabitants.

You _do_ like having Tyelperinquar here, you think; and smile to yourself, again, while no-one else can see you, soft and pleased.

***

In the rooms you gave him, you find Tyelpe sitting cross-legged on the floor, papers spread out around him; sketching out a design before him in red chalk. There are ochre smudges on his fingers; his hair is bound up at the back of his head, but loosely, a strand falling across his face as you watch.

“Tyelpe,” you say, sinking down in the space left beside him; and he glances up at you, startled, attention pulled away from his work. “That looks interesting. What are you planning?”

“I - oh,” he says. “Annatar. I had an idea, about the refractive properties of - ”

You listen to him explain, leaning in to look over the sketches as he talks. Tyelpe’s designs are always _elegant_ ; it was one of the first things that made you really _notice_ him, in the beginning.

You watch Tyelpe himself, too. It’s a long time since you first had him brought here; you remember - being _angry_ , back then, having to force yourself to patience. It’s not -

There was a time, when you thought things might be easier than this: that doing the _right_ thing meant, surely, that others would _have_ to ultimately agree. 

You overestimated them, clearly. And you suspect there are some - that self-righteous meddler Galadriel, for one - who would mistrust you if Eru Ilúvatar itself deigned to take an interest in its creation and endorse your methods, simply because they were _yours_.

But for all his obstinacy, Tyelperinquar is - different.

“Anyway, what have _you_ been doing?” he asks, curious, and you smile.

“The tedious business of governance,” you say, and Tyelpe raises an eyebrow at you. “Oh, alright. Minastir’s forces have been harassing the local Haradrim, down along the southern coasts; I’ve been looking into how best to assist them, for the most part.”

“I’m sure your concern for the mortals of Harad is nothing but selfless, of course,” Tyelpe says, and you give him your best look of injured innocence.

“I really feel,” you say, “that my selfless generosity is one of my defining features - ”

You can’t help stopping and flashing your own look of amusement back, though, at Tyelpe’s reluctant smile.

“I _am_ helping them, anyway,” you say, and give in to the urge to reach out and smooth errant strands of Tyelpe’s hair back from his face, ignoring the way he tenses slightly at your touch.

“Yes,” he says, smile fading, “but I’m not sure your _help_ is always what people need, Annatar.”

You sigh, a little, and stretch out your hand to take Tyelpe’s in yours: feeling, again, that flicker of tension that goes through him, before he relaxes and lets you twine your fingers with his.

_Patience_ , you remind yourself. 

And: here; this. Tyelperinquar in your citadel, within your power and possession; his hand beneath your own.

“They need _something_ , Tyelpe,” you say. “At least I’m _trying_. If I don’t, no-one else will.”

You watch his expression: there’s still reluctance in his face, but -

“I know you’re _trying_ , Annatar,” he says, and you tighten the grasp of your fingers against his, affectionate.

Time. Patience. You can, in the end, outlast almost any opposition.

“Anyway,” you say, “I had a thought, about your idea - ”

You catch his look of interest, and find yourself smiling again, almost involuntarily.

It _is_ pleasant, you think again; that this, also, is working so well; and you reach over to gesture at one of Tyelpe’s sketches, close enough to lean against his shoulder as you speak; more than close enough to touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/130199777237/untitled-ficlet


	29. ungoliant's children

Our mother swallowed up the light. She ate stars.

Inside her washed endless waves of brightness, silver and gold. We spiderlings cracked from gemstones; my egg was a great faceted hunk of diamond, a jewel.

Then darkness. Disgorged by our mother, we ran to and fro, shaking our many limbs in distress. Only the black night saw us.

Now we try to find the light again. The sun burns us; the stars are mocking pale fires. Only sometimes, we catch the true light for a moment, reflected in your eyes.

Maybe we hold the light within ourselves, too. Come inside. Find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/116396462887/our-mother-swallowed-up-the-light-she-ate-stars


	30. manwe/ingwe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Missed one!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Manwe/Ingwe (any rating is fine) - either something set circa the War of Wrath, and/or something with a character newly-arrived in Valinor from Middle-earth" - for yavieriel <3

Even in spring, Taniquetil’s heights were white with snow, and a cold wind that seared bone-deep. Ingwë kept to the paths, as he climbed, and pulled his cloak tight around him.

At length, he came to the place he sought, where the wind soared between columns of stone in a constant sough of motion. Ice glittered. Above the heights of the Pelóri, the sky to the east was vast and cloudlessly blue, falling past the edge of the world to the mists over the encircling seas.

The figure who stood there, tall and with hair the same shadowless white as the snow, was still, gazing out towards the east – or not still; the air moved around him and through him, as if he were part of the mountain and the sky.

“I have little news of your son, Ingwë,” the Lord of the Breath of Arda said, wearily. “Nor comfort to give. The swift-winged Eagles bring me little word, and what they say would give you no pleasure to hear.”

Ingwë approached, a little cautiously, careful of his footing.

“I knew the danger Ingwion took on himself,” he said. “I am grateful for what you can tell me, lord, but that is not my errand.”

The wind caught at Ingwë’s hair, and he shook it back, golden braids spilling past the fur-lined hood of his cloak.

“Then what?” Manwë asked, at length. Ingwë shook his head, again, feeling pressure building in his bones and teeth; the air had the static taste of storms. “I will give you what I _can_ , Ingwë, but – “

“It is hard,” Ingwë said, “to watch, and wait, and know there is no action one could take that might better the situation. I thought I might share vigil with you, at least.”

He had reached the rock where Manwë stood, and reached out to take his arm, setting caution aside. The touch was ice, for a moment, the air hard to breathe; then it was only as if he held another of his own kind.

Silence, sudden and complete. The wind stilled. Ingwë stood unsheltered to the sky, and felt himself for a moment at the eye of its attention; the world looked down at him, and saw him, the weight of that vision on the edge of his ability to bear.

He had linked arms with his friend: he used the grasp to steady himself, and felt Manwë aid him, the other’s hand coming up, very carefully, to touch his cheek.

“Thank you,” Manwë said, after a pause, something hesitant and almost surprised in his voice; and Ingwë smiled to himself, relaxing against Manwë’s shoulder, solid as the mountain against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/164131643237/manweingwe-any-rating-is-fine-either.


End file.
